


One Angel in Another's Hell

by aura218



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Denial, Gen, Lost Soul, M/M, One Shot, Rebuilding, it's complicated - Freeform, post-halloween 1981
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-04
Updated: 2005-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aura218/pseuds/aura218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1985, Aziraphale is assigned to a lost soul. And he isn't getting attached; nope, no personal attachments here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Angel in Another's Hell

"Do you come here often?" a male voice said politely.

Remus turned to find a round-faced blonde with blue eyes. "No. I don't."

New wave was not his music of choice, nor were crowds or alcohol; further, for all his purported animal grace, Remus danced like a drunken hippo. He came to the club about once a month, when the moon made his pulse quicken and his skin burn with primal need. Some werewolves took up hunting; Remus danced. If he was to be honest -- and Remus was always honest with himself -- this night he was here for . . . company. Of the drive-by variety. Two consenting adults and all that; he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Introductions were exchanged. Remus let Ezra Fell, of the horrible pickup line, buy him a drink (his first of the night; the cover charge put enough of a dent in Remus' budget). The blonde was good-looking in a way Remus only appreciated after he noticed his disarming bearing.

"Nice threads," Remus said, running a finger over the rather flash jacket.

Ezra blushed. "My friend dressed me. This isn't my usual scene."

"Nor mine," Remus said.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Ezra said. Insecurity flashed in his eyes, and Remus liked him quite a bit for that innocence.

During his gothic poetry phase, Remus had read countless allusions to sex as a religious experience. All tosh, he'd thought; Remus had had good sex, and he'd had sex with love, and he'd had the kind of sex where your body was two seconds from combustion unless you let go  _right now_. But sex with Ezra was unlike anything Remus had experienced (and, for the record, safe). Ezra's lips drew loneliness from Remus' skin like a poultice, his soft hands on Remus' skin made him felt raw and exposed, as if Ezra saw his worst secrets in his eyes, yet adored him anyway. The pressure that filled him detonated an explosion that dislodged a grief Remus had carefully hidden, even from himself.

Ezra reorganized the both of them, and as Remus came down to earth, he noticed his hitching chest and damp cheeks. Remus never cried. Not even when Si-- when his last relationship had gone to pot and sex was all they had.

"Sorry," Remus said, wiping his eyes and the embarrassing puddle he'd left on Ezra's chest.

"Just sleep, dear boy." The kiss on Remus' temple seemed to turn a switch, and he was suddenly more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life.

Remus' next awareness was of floating in the predawn haze of awakening and dreaming of warmth against his back and gentle arms encircling him. But when he woke properly, the other side of the bed was empty.

*

Another swelling moon found Remus walking laps around the club, politely ignoring anyone who tried to catch his eye, until his gaze landed on the familiar cherubic blonde.

They talked as they walked back to Remus' flat and carried the conversation over cups of tea. Ezra was pleasant and decent, Remus discovered; he knew books. Compared to Si-- his last boyfriend, Ezra was easy; there was no underscore of mistrust or threat of argument brewing beneath the surface.

Remus woke alone.

*

"Get lucky again, angel?" Crowley announced to the bookstore at large as he swept through the door. A teenager browsing the paperbacks -- harmless because she never had any money -- giggled behind her book.

"Really, my dear," the angel scolded.

Crowley gracefully hitched himself onto the counter, plucked a book from a stack of new arrivals, and thumbed through it.

"So he's your boyfriend, then? Long walks in the park, expensive dinners, candy and flowers on Valen-- " Crowley cackled so hard his sunglasses slipped down his nose.

Aziraphale snatched the book from Crowley's hand and set it on the counter with a bit more force than necessary; it "accidentally" landed within millimeters of Crowley's fingers.

"I'll thank you not to sully my work," Aziraphale snapped. "I am endeavoring to bring this young man back to the light. He thinks God has forsaken him."

"Hasn't He?" Crowley said, his laughter fading to sincerity.

"Don't be absurd."

"You and I both know that the big guy is too damn busy--"

"God is never too busy--"

"Angel, if he was paying attention, he'd have smote your worldly attachments--"

"My bookstore is part of my work!"

The argument was older than any altruism Heaven had ever inspired, and almost as old as any apathy Hell had ever cultivated.

"The fact of the matter is, Crowley," Aziraphale said with finality, "that no matter how intelligent or worldly you think you are , you cannot understand God."

"Yeah, yeah, it's lonely at the top."

"It's lonely down here, too."

Crowley's eyebrows arched.

"For the humans, that is," Aziraphale said. "Remus Lupin has a great destiny awaiting him."

"So you're just keeping him warm for it?"

"If you  _must_ put it that way."

"So it's not as if you have a personal affection for the man."

Aziraphale's gaze could have turned the little league field in Crowley's hometown into a hockey rink. "Angels do not form personal attachments to human projects. It would besmirch a heavenly agenda to turn it into -- into  _making time_."

Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale continued, "I care no more for Mr. Lupin than I do for any other human."

*

Another swelling moon, another chance encounter with Ezra at the club.

"You aren't coming here just for me, are you?"

"Just good luck. I like you-- r company." A good save, though there was no crime in his original statement; angels loved all living things.

They talked until Remus feel asleep. Aziraphale, sitting awake in the bed, mused that without worldly worries to crinkle Remus' brow and turn down the corners of his mouth, he looked closer to his ideal plane version, the perfect, untainted image God kept of all his humans.

Aziraphale tenderly ran his fingers through the rumpled, brown hair. Remus sighed in his sleep and leaned into the touch.

*

It was nice, Remus thought, how many businesspeople took time out of their lives to feed the ducks at the pond. Nice in a suspicious sort of way. A man with long, platinum hair tossed a hunk of bread into the water and spoke quietly to a man wearing a lime green bowler hat.

As Remus approached the hot dog cart, he spotted Michael, a clerk from a neighboring office who took his lunch at the same time Remus did. Michael was nice, and Remus found himself looking for him every afternoon.  _So why do I keep turning him down for a date?_ Today, Remus just wasn't up for the quasi-dating thing, and instead headed for the gyro stand on the other side of the pond.

"Hallo there! Remus!"

Remus' heart started at the shout. It sounded so like -- like a voice he hadn't heard in a very long time. He almost gasped at the fair hand waving at him from above a leather jacket-sleeved arm, until he saw that the face -- sunglasses hiding half of it -- was unfamiliar. Remus recognized his companion, though he found Ezra's welcoming smile odd; generally, when one left in the middle of the night, one wasn't seeking friendship. Remus politely waved back, pushing down the embarrassment of greeting his casual nocturnal habits in the light of day.

" G'afternoon," Ezra said, rising to shake Remus' hand.

"Had lunch yet? We were just heading for the Ritz," said Ezra's friend, introduced as Anthony.

"It's a business lunch," Ezra said quickly. "Our offices are covering it."

"Thank you, but I wouldn't want to intrude, and anyway I'm not dressed for--"

"Well, if you're not interested--" Anthony said, at the same time Ezra said, "I've been meaning to try that curry place on fifth." An unspoken conversation passed between the two men until they seemed to reach some compromise. Anthony's smile was slightly tighter than Ezra's openly friendly one.

"Curry, then?" Ezra said, hand between Remus' shoulder blades as he led him away.

Tucked into a booth, sharing an enormous sampler in the center of the table, the three men struck up easy conversation. Ezra and his friend were intelligent and quick-witted, Remus discovered, and their banter suggested the affection of long acquaintanceship; Anthony spoke with a wicked, observant humor that reminded Remus of Sirius. . . .

"All right, my dear?" Ezra said.

"Fine, thanks," Remus said, forcing a smile.

His companions were quiet for a moment, exchanging a look.

"So, Ezra says you're looking for a better job," Anthony said at length.

Remus twisted his napkin. "Something like that. I'd like to teach."

"How do you feel about tutoring?" Anthony asked. "I've a friend whose kid 'doesn't work and play well with others.' My friend wants to keep her home. The hazard pay will be good, I'm sure."

Remus smiled. "Is the child really that awful?"

"One of those little girls who's a mafia boss with pigtails."

"Sounds charming."

"Did I mention the outrageous pay? My friend's sinfully rich," Anthony said.

"Perhaps the child needs more one-on-one attention," Ezra suggested. "You may reach her in ways her other teachers couldn't."

Anthony rolled his eyes so thoroughly, Remus could sense the gesture despite the dark glasses. Anthony reached into his jacket and passed Remus a business card:  _S. Igor_ _Parkinson, esq._

"That's my friend's office. Give him a call; tell him A. J. Crowley sent you."

"I -- ah, that is, I have a condition that makes it impossible to work for several days of the month. . . ." Remus trailed off. Why bother? He should just smile politely and throw the card away when he got home, and remember to call the temp agency.

"Do you mean lycanthropy?" Anthony asked. Remus started, which Anthony must have taken as an affirmative. "You're allergic to the full moon, like. Damndest thing; knew a kid with the same problem, got wonky around the full moons. S'where the legends of werewolves and such came from."

Remus sipped his water, his throat suddenly dry.

"Anyway, don't worry about that," Anthony continued. "If Parkinson gives you any grief, give me a call. He owes me a few favors." His smile reminded Remus of a reptile who had spotted something plump and squeaking for supper.

*

Another swelling moon, but Remus had tired of the club. The noise, the music, the shallowness of it all just wasn't him.

He couldn't sleep. He told himself that a midnight walk in the park was just to burn off energy. He stuck to the path, head bowed and hands in his pockets, daring himself to look up when a passing man tried to catch his eye. It was just streamlining the process, Remus told himself. He was twenty-five years old -- there was nothing wrong with a random, safe hook-up when the blood was boiling beneath his skin. (Always safe; Muggles were dangerous these days.) He'd done it once before, for the connection as much as the sex. But tonight, the prospect seemed -- well, tempting, if he was to be honest, but also distasteful. He didn't feel much like forgetting himself in the hot flesh of an anonymous stranger.

This month was his second full moon while working for the Parkinson family. Remus had simply said that he would be out for the next two days, and if Parkinson knew the reason for Remus' absence, whatever Anthony Crowley held over his head kept the man from pressing Remus for details. Their daughter was bright enough, but spoiled and lazy, and it was pulling teeth just to get her to consent to complete an assignment. But Remus sort of liked the challenge, and the pay was comfortable, at least according to Remus' scale of things.

_This is stupid_ , he thought. As he turned and started for home, the moonlight lit on a familiar, golden-crowned head.

"What a coincidence," Remus greeted him, but with affection.

"Not entirely," Ezra said. He indicated the shop-lined street at the edge of the park. "My flat is over my bookshop. Care to come in for a cuppa?"

Ezra's book collection was  _brilliant_ , Remus thought as he explored the shelves in bibliophilic ecstasy. Aziraphale leaned against the counter, arms folded and smiling faintly as he watched the glee play on Remus' face. When he had first met him, Remus had worn the perpetual detachment of one trying to keep the depression from pulling him under. The angel congratulated himself on a job well done -- without indulging in pride -- but there was one more task to complete.

In the back of the shop was a sitting room lined with furniture considered fashion forward thirty years ago and heated by a potbellied stove; Aziraphale fiddled with it until yellow firelight chased away the damp chill of the drizzly autumn night. He and Remus took armchairs opposite one another, wrapped their hands around the warm teacups, and Remus felt compelled to speak.

He told the story of four best mates who met in school, grew up together, and the two who fell in love; he talked about a wedding, a war, and a baby whom he wished he could see grow up. He throat tightened as he told of how much he'd loved all of them, how they'd depended on one another for their lives. And then he came to the end of the story, with his friends either dead or -- or dead to him.

As Aziraphale listened, the steely detachment fell away from Remus' voice and cleansing tears slipped down his cheeks. Out came the grief and loneliness, the guilt and self-accusation, the need to punish himself for having trusted the wrong man. The hand that sculpted the muscles at the back of Remus' neck was a comforting weight as the sobs were wrenched from the dark hollow where Remus cultivated the damning thoughts he thought he deserved

"You loved him purely and selflessly," Ezra murmured, perched on the arm of Remus' chair. "As did he in return. What more could you ask of yourself?"

"I could ask -- I  _do_ ask -- for honesty," Remus sniffed. "He killed my friends, and this pathetic side of me wants to  _forgive_ him. I keep having this crazy hope that he didn't do it."

The shock was enough to cause Aziraphale to draw a sharp, unnecessary breath, so closely had Remus landed on the truth that Aziraphale so desired to give him. He couldn't, he reminded himself; that wasn't part of God's plan, a Plan greater than Aziraphale's momentary sympathy for human hardship. But the loss radiating off of Remus was too much. The words that fell from Aziraphale's lips were the sort of thing that, years ago, had gotten him this job.

"Many men are imprisoned for crimes they did not commit. It is . . . far from uncommon."

Remus looked up at him, eyes wide; Aziraphale felt palpable guilt for the divine truth with which he'd unconsciously laced the statement. He pulled his hand away from Remus as if his flesh carried contagion.

"You think?" Remus said.

"I -- I'm sure I don't know." But the damage was done.

Remus stood, wiping his eyes, a small smile on his face.

"You've been a good friend," Remus said, cupped the angel's cheek, and kissed him. Aziraphale's arms came around Remus and pulled him flush against him. He kissed him in return, deeply and with love.

With love.

Aziraphale stood and gently pushed Remus away.

"Did I do something wrong?" Remus asked, confused.

"No," Ezra said, with a sadness that Remus couldn't begin to fathom. "I'm sorry, but I have an early morning tomorrow."

Remus apologized and left.

Two days after the full moon, Remus couldn't remember where Ezra's shop was.

There were no more chance encounters at the club or anywhere else.

Later that week, taking his usual lunch at the hot dog stand, Remus met Michael again. This time, Remus quelled his nerves and did the asking out.

*

"Got guilt?" said Crowley as he hopped up onto the counter beside Aziraphale's dusty cash register.

"Beg your pardon?"

"In two days, you've thwarted four illicit affairs, stopped half a dozen purse snatchings, and patrolled enough shopping malls to curtail half a middle school's shoplifting habit. Have I done something rude? Otherwise, making me work extra hard to balance out your work is  _not on_."

"I do my job to benefit humanity and to exalt the Lord, not for petty vengeance." Aziraphale dusted with a fury.

"You're grumpy today."

Aziraphale dusted.

"And tense. Need to visit your main squeeze."

The feather duster pinwheeled through the air and hit Crowley in the chest.

He stared at it, stunned. "You threw that at me."

"Will you please leave me alone?"

"No." Crowley picked up the duster and set it on the counter, then approached the angel slowly, as if he was a woodland creature he didn't want to frighten away. "What's wrong?"

"I have a sin to confess."

"Oh. . . . Like, to a priest?"

"Don't be daft."

"What's your sin?" This should be interesting.

"I kissed Remus Lupin."

"So? I thought you were sleeping with him -- to benefit humanity and to exalt the lord," Crowley added quickly.

"I kissed him and meant it."

Crowley blinked. It took several seconds for assumption to be washed away and understanding to be built. "Oh. You mean--"

"I love him more than I should."

In Crowley's scowl, Aziraphale saw the grievances of which he accused himself.

"I can't see him again, clearly," Aziraphale said. "There's no need, anyway. The job is completed. The anger and grief on his soul have been removed. His tutoring position won't last, but his sense of worthiness in the world will. And in a few years, he'll even have the truth."

"Good job," Crowley said hollowly.

"I don't . . . I don't understand what happened. I'm only thankful that I caught it and can now work to grow from this mistake."

Crowley snorted.  _That_  was a mire he wasn't about to get into. "C'mon, angel. Dinnertime. I think you've worked off your sin and deserve some decent lobster bisque."

Aziraphale didn't feel that he deserved it, but brooding was negative and counterproductive and therefore a sin, too. So he closed up the shop.

"So, is it just mortal stuff you're not allowed to love?" Crowley said lightly.

"No, everything. That's the point of devotion; you love God more than you love anything else."

"What about loving certain things in a -- different way than you love others?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know. Things in your life." Crowley buttoned his duster, fidgeting with one of the buttons. "Tea. Books. Friends."

Aziraphale's smile broke across his face like the dawn. Sometimes the last thing you expected . . . Impulsively, he kissed Crowley's cheek.

"Come, my dear," he said, as he slid his hand into Crowley's and pulled the demon towards the Bentley. "My lobster bisque is calling me."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to beta Merebehr and inspiration from Copperbadge.


End file.
